


That's Entertainment

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
Genre: God Is Narrator, Hearing Voices, M/M, retelling Good Omens with Stranger Than Fiction, stranger than fiction AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale was living his life, perfectly normal, when he suddenly heard a voice. It wasn't his. It wasn't Crowley's. It wasn't even God! It just seemed to be narrating him and his pocket watch and it has some opinions about the end of the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. And A Voice On High

**Author's Note:**

> Also huge thanks to Obssessionful for saying there should be a Stranger Than Fiction AU and then I scooped it up in my little, little hands, and ran with it.
> 
> Also, sorry right now, I'm terrible with a posting schedule. I make no promises, just vague and helpful threats.

IT WAS A NICE DAY.

_More than that, it was a Wednesday, which was a very nice day in the middle of what appeared to be a very nice week, with rain reported for the weekend. The trees will love it, of course, though perhaps all the people hoping for a spot of sun out in the park will be disappointed. Either way, that’s days from now, and it is not the rainy weekend. It was a Wednesday._

_Of course, this is not the story entirely about Wednesdays, whether they are of an inclement temperament or not. This is a story about a man named Aziraphale and his pocket watch._

_Aziraphale was a man of books, of infinite prose, endless stories and remarkably few words. And his pocket watch said even less._

_He was also not even a man, but that will come later._

_Aziraphale, also known as A.Z. Fell, proprietor of A.Z. Fell Books in Soho. The lease on the building said it was owned by one Anthony Zachariah Fell, that it was inherited from a grandfather by the very same name, and that it may well be a bookshop in name and taxes, but the proprietor might as well be a dragon for how he hordes._

_For, you see, the place was called a bookstore, and the place was run almost exactly like a bookstore, but it was very rare that someone left having purchased an actual book. One might wonder why it wasn’t a library instead, if the owner was so keen on keeping his collection, and one might get the answer, ‘_ then I have to lend them out, and who _knows_ what people might do to them while they have them _!’_

_Safer to say a bookshop. Safer to pretend not to part with any of them on pretense of ‘low on stock’ or ‘insane price’ or ‘weird hours’ made by the owner._

_The owner who, again, was Aziraphale._

_Every day for 220 years, Aziraphale would rearrange his books. Alphabetical order was always a popular choice, and with two stories of inventory and growing, it took plenty of time to find and place the books in said order, with new starting points sprouting up in arbitrary places around the shop. Genre was second. Colour a third. The whims of the day a distant fourth. His pocket watch sat in his waistcoat, quietly wishing Aziraphale would dust a bit more. Might bring in more customers._

_Every day for 220 years, Aziraphale would put himself in a light collared button down and a favorite tan velvet waistcoat instead of, say, a dark green collared button down and a gaudy silk brocade waistcoat, because they were his staples and comforts and he rarely stepped outside those comforts. In the pasty fifty years he had acquired a grey wool cardigan that he liked to wear around the shop and small circular spectacles that he liked to wear whenever. Mostly while reading. The spectacles had no opinions. His pocket watch thought the waistcoat was cut too short and made his torso look round but said nothing._

_Every day, for 220 years, Aziraphale would stand up from his armchair, collect listings of rare books from catalogues shipped to his address, and take inventory from the back door at nearly 8 am from an International Express Worker named Leslie. His pocket watch would delight in the brief happy interlude with a stranger, who’s smile was permanent but genuine in a world that tried so hard to beat it out of anyone who found joy in their station in life._

_And every day, for 220 years, Aziraphale would complete an accumulation12,376,441,117 Heavenly Requests of Miraculous Intent as the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, stationed on Earth by God’s will with special permission from the Archangel Gabriel. He’d also file his taxes and was so scrupulous that the government was sure was committing fraud. Lunch breaks happened whenever, as did afternoon tea, as did occasional visits to St. James Park, timed with zero precision and zero regard, but noted all the same by his pocket watch._

_Beyond that, Aziraphale lived a life of relative solitude. He shooed out customers. He ate little lemon and poppy seed biscuits in the quiet sanctuary of his sturdy armchair. He closed the door after Leslie the International Express Worker dropped off his packages and on Gabriel whenever he came to “check up on things.” Humans were such fast and fascinating creatures that he could not form bonds with them. He was more apt to enjoy the company of a pocket watch, which he could have mended, and could keep up with him for 220 years._

_That was, of course, before Wednesday. The nice day, Wednesday. On Wednesday, Aziraphale’s pocket watch changed everything._

> A young boy nicks an apple of the kitchen table. The way he leaps and bounds, one might assume there should be a little dog clipped to his heels, excitedly begging for a bite of forbidden fruit. He waves over his shoulder at his mother’s good morning, his father’s request not to run in the house, the two of them content in the banality of their cozy, idyllic lives. The sun shines, as it always does, as it should, and the boy rushes out the door to catch up with his friends. An impending birthday makes him fly like he has wings on his feet. He grabs up his bike, resting neatly next to his house, and wheels off to find his gang, the Them. They’ve a whole summer day to while away and The Boy, Adam Young, is teeming with exciting ideas to keep them busy.
> 
> A young woman nicks an apple off the kitchen table. The way she moves through the kitchen, it’s clear this isn’t her home, childhood or not. She brushes her hair over her shoulder and pours over an old book, diving into the inevitability of destiny. At the very least, the end of the world seems to want to start in a very pretty little village that she’s certain she’d never visit if not for the wishes of her ancestor, one very stubborn and very accurate witch. The Last Witch of England, Anathema Device, is teeming with exciting ideas to hunt for the Beast and stop Armageddon.

_The new inventory was in and Aziraphale, in his grey wool cardigan and small circular spectacles, carefully opened a double-bound cardboard box, curious which book had found its way to his collection. He hopes it’s another bible. Misprinted bibles and books of fortune telling hold a soft spot in his not-human heart. These are an important part of his collection and rarely make it to the shelves on the first floor and never near the front of the shop, because he hates the idea of anyone even thinking of touching them. They are blasphemous things, ridiculous things, poetry and even pornography, with one particularly wicked bible. That even a simple mistake could be kept forever and stand as a reinterpretation of the word of God, ineffable in all ways, simply fascinated him. Tickled him pink._

_His pocket watch knew that a letter added or omitted was random chance and didn’t think God had anything to do with it but could submit to God being in on the joke._

_If one had asked Aziraphale, he would have said that Wednesday was exactly like all the Wednesdays prior. It was nice, of course, and he began it the same way he—_

“I beg your pardon?”

For the better part of the morning, Aziraphale had been doing the usual, which, alright, it was doing what he did any other day he had some time to himself. There’s no crime to routine. But the moment he spoke aloud, the strange…. _voice_ that bullied it’s way to the forefront of his thoughts stopped.

“Is someone there?”

Aziraphale paused, looking around, and takes a moment to lean forward, focusing his attention on the entirety of the bookshop instead of the book in his hands. He listened a moment more and when the distant churn of the traffic outside was the only answer, he slowly turned back to the stack he had had been reshelving.

_He began it the same way he always did. When other’s would—_

“Hello!”

Aziraphale stepped around the edge of a bookshelf, expecting someone snuck into the shop early, despite the sign reading closed. He would have noticed. He should have noticed, more likely, but perhaps he’d been too invested in the additions to his collection. The stack he had now included an original copy of the _Jasper Bible_ , which managed to misprint Jesus’ name every single time to Jasper, to the point that it must have been on purpose. There seemed to be no other changes, but Aziraphale was keen to get books put away so he might have his favorite armchair free so he could take a look at it for himself.

The bookshop, of course, was empty. Too early yet for the random wanderer and, of course, Crowley wouldn’t be up yet. He slept, while Aziraphale didn’t, so that was something.

But the voice, while very real, didn’t have opinions on him looking around, so he returned to his spot in the stacks and slowly lifted the book he had been reshelving

_When other’s would rouse themselves from their beds, sleep clinging to sleepy brows, trying to grip onto the final moments of their dreams….Aziraphale put away books._

Aziraphale set his books down on another stack hard enough that a little cloud of dust exploded away from the binding. It would have made anybody else flinch, surely, or startle whatever was deciding to follow him. Couldn’t be Crowley, of course. He’d recognize the voice. No, this was…this was something else entirely!

“Alright,” Aziraphale said stubbornly, finally looking up towards the second floor, stepping out to the large central floor space in the bookshop. He turned around, stretching up on his toes, trying to spot a moving shadow or a snag of hair as someone ducked away. “Now who’s gone and said, ‘Aziraphale put away books’? Hmm? Of course I’m putting away books! I don’t think I need your commentary on the matter!”

He had gone around in a circle at this point, going so far as to flex his angelic presence into the corners of the shop and drive anybody out. Even his divine form felt…nothing.

“…Hello?” he asked a little softer.

Perhaps it was the books that were doing it. Or something like imagination. Angels shouldn't have imagination, you see, but, well.... Yes, must be. It was a trying time, really, in the world. It had been quite trying for some ten years, eleven months, and a handful of days. Aziraphale had found his life leading up to a remarkable moment and he was certain it could also be incredibly unremarkable, if they had played their cards right. He very much hoped so.

He also very much didn’t need a disembodied voice he did not recognize following after him. If he _did_ recognize it, he could ask if God was having a laugh. He’d ask it very respectfully and he’d ask how Her day was going and let it be that. Maybe request a stay of execution for the whole of the planet, pretty please, and all that. But that wasn’t God’s voice. He was so certain.

Must be a delusion. Human’s spoke of delusions and perhaps the stress of the events to come had placed one in Aziraphale’s mind. He could excise it, surely, as an angel and all, but, instead, he decided to simply leave the stack of books where they were and…go…do. Something else for a while.

That should solve it.

However, making himself a new cup of cocoa was just the catalyst the voice was waiting for to start up again and as Aziraphale put the kettle on, he could hear it somewhere above him go on again. The moment it started, Aziraphale firmly gripped the kettle and set his mouth in a firm line, doing his best to ignore:

 _It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Aziraphale’s life, so often taken for granted, would become the catalyst for an entirely_ new _life._

New life. Well, if that’s how it was going to feel about things, Aziraphale had to admit, yes, hearing a voice go on about his day was certainly new. Still, perhaps it was just a rogue spirit having some fun and his best bet was simply to pay it no mind.

He did try.

For about an hour or two, actually, which was a considerable amount of time to indulge in a voice following him, he thought. But the voice seemed to be tired of his routines and was very select on what it wanted to focus on. It had no thoughts if he simply went from room to room, or if he continued drinking his cocoa. It had thoughts on the _contents_ of the cocoa, which was not overly sweet nor overly creamy, but a dark and rich flavor with a hint of cinnamon and the tiniest bite of spice – cumin. It was something he had often enough, an old favorite recipe, a comfort and he thought he deserved such things as comforts!

The voice thought differently.

_This was the last sip Aziraphale would have of his overly complicated cocoa, the last time he would dare dash cumin into the watery chocolate mixture that tended to stain his favorite white mug._

Aziraphale frowned as he lifted the mug, indeed noticing a dribble over the lip of the mug that looked like the ghost of candle wax. It hadn’t reached the bottom, apparently inspired to avoid dripping onto his desk and, subsequently, the papers underneath. Not that it didn’t happen. There were several places with rings from tea mugs. There were several places with tea mugs still in place around the shop.

The voice also thought he should clean more, apparently.

_The dust, the calm, the tomb-like stillness of the bookshop settled in as comfortably as Aziraphale settled into a chair. For this was an extraordinary day. A day to be remembered for the rest of Aziraphale’s life. But, of course, Aziraphale just thought it was Wednesday._

“I know it is!” Aziraphale shouted up towards the ceiling. It was a lovely ceiling, actually, with an ocular-like skylight at the top of a little dome, which he could reach by spiral staircase. The same skylight that now cut through his shop and illuminated a stark line of dust. Aziraphale didn’t consider it to be very tomb-like. It was cozy for him and certainly _un_ cozy for any annoying customers!

Should he dust?

Aziraphale made a face, scrunching up his nose in distaste. He wasn’t about to start dusting simply because a voice described his establishment. It could describe it any way it pleased.

He was going to ignore it.

He was going. To. Ignore it.

_Aziraphale couldn’t concentrate today._

When he rolled his eyes, the voice didn’t think that was worth noting, either.

_He was lost. He struggled to keep interest in even his most contentious books, from the severe critical works that railed against religion as a whole to saucy antiques written by desperately horny young men hoping to woo or inspire anyone to see them and their desires, his mind continued to wander away._

“Yes, well, I can’t concentrate when you’re talking,” Aziraphale muttered bitterly.

“What?”

Right. There were people in the shop now, as it was one of the few days he had a whim to open the door. It may have been a futile attempt to drown out the voice, but it distracted him terribly from noting when someone came in and his usual attempts to drive them right back out again, like it was a game of sorts that he denied any pleasure in.

“What?” Aziraphale asked back, blinking at the stranger. He looked down at the book in the gentleman’s hands – oh! His third favourite copy of Anne Thackeray Ritchie’s _The Story of Elizabeth_ – and slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid that one isn’t for sale.”

“What?” the man repeated, though this time the question had clearly changed in meaning. “But it was on the table over there.”

 _When a customer asked to purchase a book that was clearly sitting on very small and very reserved table of his collection that was deemed_ for sale _—_

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale said again, biting the words through his teeth.

_—Aziraphale remained in denial._

“It…it really was, though,” the customer said. He pointed again, back towards the table, which was just as cluttered as the rest of the shop. Dusty, too. Aziraphale huffed when he noticed it. “A-And there’s…see, a price. On the inside.”

“On the what?”

_He would sell the book anyhow._

“I _what_?” Aziraphale demanded, which startled the man in front of him, who thought the usually even-tempered-if-very-daunting-bookshop-owner was having a fit.

 _As it would get the customer out of his shop before anybody_ less-human _arrived._

Aziraphale immediately looked to the door and wondered who’s shadow would cross his threshold. Gabriel? Good Lord, he didn’t need to deal with _customer’s_ and _Gabriel_ in the same breath. He quickly clapped the book shut and handed it back over, distractedly waiting for payment while his eyes remained fixed to the windows.

 _As a regular who was regularly denied, the man quickly put payment on the counter and hurried out, underpaying by 73%, as the sticker had been switched out while Aziraphale was lost in his own thoughts_.

Aziraphale jumped at the voice then, like cold water poured down his neck.

“73 – what!” he shouted and, in turn, everyone else jumped in the shop, too. There were only three others, but that was three too many and Aziraphale couldn’t handle brushing them off now that his third favourite copy of _The Story of Elizabeth_ was running off with a veritable thief. “We’re closed!” he shouted, a bit unhospitable, despite his usual efforts. “Everyone out! Go! Shop’s closed! Family emergency! Whatever you like! Put that down,” he said firmly to someone holding _Tales of Wayside Inn_. The customer dropped it and went out the door with everyone else, which Aziraphale closed promptly, flipped the sign, and turned off the light by the front door for good measure.

73% indeed.

Come midday, Aziraphale had had quite enough indulging a delusion. He was wavering on that, but whether it was or it wasn’t, it was tiring and he continued to wander around, trying to find anything short of falling asleep to see what might ignite the voice to continue. It wasn’t an evil voice, he was certain. It wasn’t a malevolent one, either. Polite enough not to be rude outright, but it clearly didn’t think so highly of Azirpahale’s habits.

So, he returned to what had caused it earlier and tried to file his books. But that, too, proved too much and he stood in front of his books, staring ahead, his hair clawed up into a bit of a curly mess when the door opened despite all signs saying it shouldn’t. Which could only mean one being had come to join him that afternoon.

“I swear, if anyone else figured out that the pavement wasn’t simply an extension of the road itself, traffic would at least be a little more exciting, if it wasn’t faster,” Crowley said, coming through the stacks with the practiced ease of someone who regularly visit despite the fact that they were hereditary enemies since the very first day the Earth was spun into motion. “And if you catch the crash on the 5 o’clock news, just know that I didn’t see that lorry with all the chickens, and – Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale continued staring at his books, even as Crowley sauntered around the corner and stood directly in front of him. He was a slim cut of black attire, made leaner when he crossed his arms in subtle confusion and leaned against the wall, waiting for Aziraphale to respond.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked again, a little quieter, betraying a gentleness inside the demon that so few were privy to, even Aziraphale himself. He blinked and looked up, moving as slow as he dared for fear the voice might start speaking again. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m…I’m being followed,” Aziraphale announced.

Crowley’s whole body shivered in a wave, a recoil as he lifted his hand away and looked around, too.

“Followed?” Crowley whispered, and there was the strangest little tickle, a pressure at the edge of Aziraphale’s body.

Crowley’s own occult essence was worming through the bookshop, looking for the interloper. Aziraphale discovered he had a tiny shred of hope that Crowley would find the source for him and perhaps even be so kind as to “take care of it,” but when Crowley started to look confused, Aziraphale realized he had no such luck.

“How, exactly, are you being followed?” Crowley asked carefully. He looked down at Aziraphale. “You’re not moving.”

“It’s by a voice,” Aziraphale amended quickly.

“What?”

“A…a voice! A woman’s voice…is…she’s….”

“She?” The tone and slight incline of Crowley’s body suggested something that took Aziraphale longer to latch onto than he anticipated.

“Not Her. I thought the same thing.”

They both sighed in equal but separate forms of disappointment. But, Aziraphale was stubbornly hopeful at times, and stubbornly not in others.

“Well,” Crowley said, hoping to push past the disappointment. “What’s she doing, exactly?”

“She’s narrating.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said as Crowley looked around them.

“But the shop’s empty. And…and you’re just standing there.” Crowley quirked what was undoubtedly an immaculate eyebrow. He had two very immaculate eyebrows and he utilized them like weapons. “What _exactly_ is she narrating?”

Perhaps it was Crowley’s presence that inspired him to try. At the very least, their ethereal alignments should make it plausible to hear disembodied voices and perhaps, _perhaps_ he was not alone in this adventure. What if it was like an infection and if he could get it started, Crowley might be able to hear. Maybe they couldn’t do anything about it, but at least they could suffer together and, well, misery loves company or however it goes. While not too terribly keen on cursing his closest and only companion, he figured he might as well give it a shot.

“Listen,” Aziraphale said softly and picked up a book.

_The sound the cover made against the next book had the same tone as a wave scraping against sand, only to land home on the dry wood of the shelf in front of him. And when Aziraphale thought about it, he had touched enough books that he could imagine himself dipping his hands into a turbulent sea of human experience, masked by what could be surmised as a deep and endless ocean of knowledge in the scrape of those pages._

“Did you hear that?” Aziraphale asked, setting the next book up onto a cleared away shelf he had been utilizing precisely for this exercise.

“Hear what? You putting old books away?”

When Crowley grabbed one, the thump was soft, muted, and not at all an ocean. Not one that could even sustain a little frog, let alone the imaginations of the human race.

“No, it’s…it’s….” He sighed, and put another book onto the shelf, this time not even looking how it was aligned or if they were in the right order, his shoulders sagging as his voice trailed off. “She says I’m imagining dipping my hands into a turbulent sea of human experiences. But I _do_ , Crowley. I _do_ imagine a turbulent sea of human experience!”

Crowley looked quickly from Azirapahle’s hands and back to the bookshelf.

“Sea of what now?”

“Of…of….”

Aziraphale failed to make a cohesive sentence, let alone a gesture that could vocalize exactly what he felt, so he decided to give up on both. At the very least, it didn’t work like an infection. And he was quite possibly just going mad in a very regular, human way. Small comfort in that, really.

“Forget it,” he said through a sigh, turning his attention back up to Crowley, like he was finally taking in that he was _here_. Exactly as the voice had predicted. Or, more likely, as they had planned. Big weekend coming up. So….

“Didja want to get lunch?” Crowley offered helpfully, the wince hidden in a split-second by a smile, his eyes helpfully covered by his sunglasses. “Might, uh, might. Y’know.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered. “It might.”

A couple of cheese toasties and some hot soup might help indeed. The go out for lunch, but when it’s clear the voice is just going to follow him out there, too, Aziraphale suggests they cut lunch early, which is just enough sign that they need to move onto phase 2 of the evening, which is wine. Copious amounts of wine.

“I don’t know,” Crowley says, not at all in defiance of drinking as he already had a glass in hand and was making himself comfortable on the sitee across from Aziraphale, who had taken to his chair like a cat to cream. “I’m…mnh.”

“That’s not an emotion, dear boy,” Aziraphale reminded him, and the look he received said it all. It damn well _was_ an emotion and Aziraphale was being _difficult_ _on purpose_. He was. He felt he earned it without giving reason to why. “Go on, then.”

“I’m nervous,” Crowley finally said. Soon as the words were out he downed his glass, his throat working up and down in quick succession, leaving not a drop in his glass afterwards, which had been very full before.

“Nervous?” Aziraphale repeated and wonders a moment if he should get out another bottle for them, pour over their ideas as one pours chocolate over a sundae.

 _There was no ice cream in the freezer, even though it plagued him during this surprisingly nice evening in_.

Aziraphale gripped his glass at the narration and frowned into his drink. Well, that answered that, didn’t it? And he didn’t even think to look and go prove the voice wrong, as it had certainly been right about many other things.

“Nervous,” Crowley said. There was a moment where Aziraphale might say it back again, which would be twice in a row now, and that was hardly a conversation. Crowley agreed, since he opened his mouth quickly and added, “about this weekend, I mean.”

“This weekend,” Aziraphale said slowly.

“Yes! Aren’t you?”

Crowley sat up then, stamping both feet back onto the carpeted floor. It wasn’t even a carpet, it was a series of old but well-loved rugs, as antique as any other part of the bookshop. And he stamped them. One-two.

 _Goodness, maybe this wine is already getting to me_ , Aziraphale thought and giggled behind his hand when he realized it was said in his own mind, in his own voice. A victory if there ever was one.

“What?” Crowley asked, feeling vulnerable and therefore more prone to prickliness.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale assured him. “This weekend?”

“Right. Yeah. Yes, this weekend, yeah! And I know,” Crowley droned on, relaxing a bit. “I know, we’ve done all we can. And you got your outfit set for the magic show, right? Which, let me reiterate, is a stupid idea.”

“Stupid?” Aziraphale whined.

“Yes!” Aziraphale pouted further, sinking into his armchair. “But I know you’re set on it,” Crowley amended, trying to smooth it over after he’d crossed an invisible line. He had his opinions, that was certain, and he voiced them well enough. But a sulking Aziraphale was not exactly a great drinking partner. “Just…anyways. We’ll know after the party.”

“We’ll know?”

“Yes, haven’t you been…are you just going to repeat everything I say back to me?”

“Oh.”

_While the evening hadn’t gone on exactly how Aziraphale had hoped, he was faced with the realization that he was, indeed, a lousy host. Worse, he was a lousy companion to Crowley, who wormed into his life for the past 6000 years that, despite their differences of opinion and origin and natural alignment in the universe, they had managed to go from enemies to very nearly friends. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer worked quite well for them, in terms of remaining close and Aziraphale was suddenly aware that, indeed, they were close enough that if he leaned forward, even just a little, he could touch Crowley’s leg. It teased him in his peripheral, the forbidden fruit hanging so low._

Aziraphale closed his eyes instead of validating how close Crowley’s leg was.

“Right,” Crowley said, with the soft sound of stemware set onto a cluttered table. “Okay, well, I’ll just leave you to…whatever you’re doing.”

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale said, his voice sharp and tinged with latent desperation. His newfound narrator didn’t seem to have anything to add to that and he took a grateful breath. “I’m sorry. I appear to…to be all over the place, really. Out of my mind, I fear.”

“Yeah?” When Aziraphale peeked, Crowley was still on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, his chin resting on his knuckles in thought. “Yeah, see? That’s what I’m saying. Nervous. I dunno, something’s in the air.”

“That might be it,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, nearly chewing his lip.

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

There was another pause, but, thankfully, one that wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as before.

“Let’s have another bottle,” Aziraphale said, forcing himself up and out of the chair, cognizant of Crowley’s gaze fixed on him no matter how hard he denied it. “And you’ll tell me everything you’re nervous about, alright?”

And that must’ve been the right thing to say, because Crowley relaxed in increments. He would gladly become Aziraphale’s shadow and follows him through the bookshop until they pilfered bottles from Aziraphale’s collection. Instead, they met back up in his sitting area, under the warm glow of twin antique lamps, and the two of them were happy for the company.

Aziraphale’s pocket watch swings out of his waistcoat, glad to join the party.


	2. Unpleasant News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley drink together in the bookshop and contemplate the end of the world. And then Aziraphale gets some bad news, oh NO!

IT WAS A QUIET EVENING.

“It’s – it’s the…the _un_ knowing, y’know?” Crowley crowed from the couch. He had his feet up on the cushions and took to roosting up on the backrest. Crowley couldn’t sit proper to save his life, it seems, as much as Azirpahale tried to show him how. Aziraphale, who sat comfortably in his armchair for an hour now, feet on the ground – no stamping – and his hands migrating back and forth from the armrest to his stomach as he held a glass or bottle of wine when he needed them. Maybe he slouched down a bit and maybe his bowtie was undone for comfort’s sake, but he was still sitting _properly_.

_If anybody should have opinions about sitting and propriety, Aziraphale had too many of them. His pocket watch thought he was a fool for wasting his time on silly arguments._

“You said,” Aziraphale answered, soldiering on through the distraction that seemed to only preoccupy _him_ these past few hours. He winced when he clacked the bottle of wine to his glass and watched it glug out a healthy dose. “You said you were…sure.”

“Nearly sure,” Crowley said, happy to amend and pass it off as fact.

“Nearly?”

“Don’t.” The demon took a nice long sip, draining his glass.

_There is something to be said about the nature of demons. Temptation in their very design, and Crowley here was no exception to that fact. With the long length of his neck bobbing, the tight sinews restricting after each gulp, a blank canvas to be drawn upon._

Aziraphale looked down at his glass again, wondering if he should drink all of his just as quickly. Crowley smiled a strained smile, settling in after the burn of alcohol while Azirpahale did his best to pretend his own cheeks were rosy from drinking and from nothing else.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said quietly, hoping to soothe.

“Don’t."

"Don't...?"

"No, don't. You don't.... Jus’ don’t go, y’know, _repeatin_ ’ everything. Again. It’s unsettling.”

“Unset—”

Crowley jabbed a finger at him and Aziraphale buttoned himself up after that. Indeed, he even took a sip of wine because it was the best distraction he had from his paltry attempts to defend himself.

“Anyways, I’m still…bang on certain.” Crowley wavered again, threatening to tumble down off the back of the sofa, if it wasn’t so cramped against another bookshelf. “I’m certain we’ve got it. The right one. Raised 'em right, I think. I’m—”

He could go on for hours like this. Pretending, deep down, that he wasn’t scared about the end of the world and pretending he was right about what they had done, raising young Warlock together. It had been a remarkable few years. Perhaps the most remarkable in a long and remarkable life, actually. And saying _long_ wasn’t even facetious. They were such, such, _such_ long lives, some lives that Aziraphale quite liked. Lives that have no idea what will happen tomorrow but are not immune to the whims of hope all the same.

_Tomorrow will be Thursday. And tomorrow would have been like any other Thursday, if Aziraphale’s life wasn’t set to change._

There was something so ominous about it. No denying it any longer; that voice was threatening Aziraphale, and he wasn’t even certain if the threat was for a good time or not. His life was about to change…. Yes! Of course it was! The birthday…the AntiChrist….

_On his normal Thursdays, Aziraphale would go to the park, as he usually does, and find the bench that he usually finds and would feed ducks. He might even talk about the weather. He would have company, as he usually does, with his very good friend, Crowley. It would go as it always goes. He would say something benign, Crowley would say something cunning, and the two would depart to go find lunch together. They would not hold hands. They would not touch in any sort’ve way, which wasn’t important except for exactly how important it was. And Aziraphale would come back to the bookshop to read, to listen, to drum the heartbeat’s drum some more._

Even as Crowley droned on about the party, now ripping apart the colour scheme of the event and how he had to get a uniform tailored in time, Aziraphale simply reached up and covered his own chest, trying to feel that heartbeat.

 _And while tomorrow, a Thursday, could just as well be like all the Thursdays prior, it was remarkable how much it also could not be. Routine’s can easily be broken. Aziraphale’s pocket watch, for example, would love to break them. For a machine who’s only purpose was to keep a schedule, his pocket watch hated them. It wished it could say something. But it hadn’t figured out any reasonable way to communicate, even as long as it sat there in Aziraphale’s waistcoat pocket, slowly consumed by him until it became another staple of his wardrobe and, by extension, a piece of the angel himself. His pocket watch merely comes along for the ride and rolls its gears in a similar vein someone might roll their eyes whenever Aziraphale opens the face and sighs at the time. He does this hourly, of course._ Routine _._

Aziraphale soon discovered he was pouting again and, worse, had missed almost everything Crowley was rambling about. Instead, he had picked up his pocket watch off his belly and let it swing slowly in a tight little circle from the end of a silver chain. Did…did his watch hate him? What was he supposed to do with a watch that hated him?

_Crowley had a rather distracting wristwatch. The pocket watch wondered what devilish deeds that ridiculous wristwatch can get up to. It was opulent and big and bulky and looked like it should be able to hack something electronic with a push of a few buttons along the side. Bring down satellites or something. Oh, if a pocket watch could get closer and gossip. What fun things they might say._

_But they don’t._

Aziraphale pushed the little latch that opened his pocket watch to check on it. Was. Was it…was it the source of his narration? A cursed trinket that took, oh, _centuries_ to wake up and annoy him with some background voice?

“D’you need the time?” Crowley asked suddenly, slow and careful as he set his glass down again and turned his wristwatch – it was indeed quite ridiculous – around to face him. “I’ve got half past ten. On the dot.”

“Half…half past….” Aziraphale pulled his watch in closer, squinting to look at the face of it.

_With such a focus on watches, Aziraphale wondered if his was simply on the fritz, and never even thought about what it was trying to tell him, sliding out of his pocket and wandering closer and closer to Crowley. In fact, Aziraphale had never once paid attention to his watch, other than to find out the time. And, honestly, it drove his pocket watch crazy._

“Does it?” Aziraphale whispered to it, watching it spin and spin and spin.

“Oh, not half past....” Crowley said, who was still wobbly and still focused at looking on his wrist that he didn’t notice Aziraphale having a conversation with his own timepiece. “Half past…three. 33. Yeah, 10:33, actually.”

Aziraphale nodded, and spun the arm about to match Crowley’s wristwatch, until it was all aligned to 10:33 on the dot.

_So Aziraphale’s pocket watch went and changed fate. For as he changed over the time, little did Aziraphale know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act, would ultimately result in his death._

“Wh…what? What?” Aziraphale dropped his pocket watch immediately, feeling as though his lungs were on the verge of collapsing. The pocket watch had nowhere to go, really, but down the front of his waistcoat and just barely slipped its way back into his pocket, retreating like a scheming serpent into a cave. “What!”

Crowley was equally roused out of his quiet drunken stupor, alarmed by Aziraphale’s shouting.

“What is it? Someone here?”

“Why? Why death? What? Hello!” Aziraphale tipped over his drink as he stood up, wheeling about so hard that Crowley had to catch him so they both didn’t end up flipping over the table and the couch. “Why my death?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, finally coming out of confusion and firmly into worry. “What’re you talking about?”

“That _voice!_ That voice is…it’s!” This would have been a marvelous time to curse, but Aziraphale had managed 6000 years without cursing, and it would be a shame to break habit now, even with his untimely death apparently imminent. “It’s threatening me!”

“It’s—”

“Threatening me!” Azirapahle shouted. “Hello! Excuse me! Talk to me _right now_! What’s this about my death?!”

At the very least, Crowley looked worried and even was kind enough to turn around a few times, looking for the source of Aziraphale’s distress. Or, more accurately, humoring him, as he was certain it was just a trick from the stress of the upcoming weekend and, well, everything else.

“Angel,” Crowley started, which was only something he called Aziraphale either in public to save him from people hearing his given name and honing in on their activities, or to tease him. And, on very rare occasions, as a compliment. “I…I really don’t hear anything.”

“Of course you don’t! It’s my voice!” Aziraphale answered too harshly, rounding about.

He probably looked mad. He _felt_ mad! He felt! Oh, well, he felt dizzy, too, but that might be the threat of his death and all. He felt drunk, come to think of it, and covered his forehead, groaning to the back of his wrists.

“I can’t do this inebriated,” he decided, surprised he even said it out loud as Crowley agreed with him. “I need to sober up.”

“Sure thing,” Crowley said and the two of them forced all the alcohol out of their systems.

That Crowley did it as well was a kindness, actually, as the two of them scraped their tongues and felt the instant effect of a hangover drudging up their spines.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Crowley joked, laughing for his own sake as Aziraphale was too distracted to do as such.

“I think I’d like to be alone,” Aziraphale said, sober and serious again. He would love to not be sober and serious as he shouted at his ceiling some more, but it wasn’t helping. And Crowley only provided distractions.

Still, the request itself was a slap to Crowley’s face, who had clearly come over looking for a distraction from his own nerves. Aziraphale was a poor friend not to provide it. But, then again, they weren’t really meant to be friends, either. “See you tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Or, at the very least, Friday.”

“Friday,” Crowley said and didn’t see the irony in him repeating words back. He nodded and looked around until Azirpahale helped him find his coat.

“You’re okay to drive?” Aziraphale asked as they got closer to the front door, realizing he had gone and made a mistake and had zero emotional tools readily available to undo it. He was so bloody _tired_. Had he ever felt so tired?

“I always am,” Crowley answered. He grinned forcefully to the cool night air, which would soon drink him right up. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Quite right.”

He ushered Crowley out and waved as he got to his car, the ridiculous oversized Bentley that was half-parked on the pavement’s lip with no regards to pedestrians or other motorists. The car would be fine. It always was, as it was Crowley’s. And Crowley would be fine too. Tomorrow they would both be fine, and this would be a marvelously weird dream, Aziraphale was certain of it.

Especially when he closed the door and wheeled about, his fists up like he was going to fight the very bookshop itself.

“Come on, you…you voice! Speak to me! I heard you. ‘Ultimately result in his death.’ I heard you!” The shouting helped. It boiled his blood right back up and he started to move about, occasionally thrashing his fist upwards. “Why don’t you say something now, hmm?” He began to drag books off the shelves, more violently than he would ever dare. “Tell me about turbulent seas and endless oceans. ‘Aziraphale…tossed…books about…like…a madman. Aziraphale…broke…a bookshelf!’”

Which he did by jamming his fist down and snapping it in half. He gasped. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Or was it? The voice didn’t say anything on the matter, good or bad. He felt bad about it, of course, but…more pressing issues, it seemed. He needed a reaction, a verification that he had heard something all day and it was haunting him. Threatening him!

Aziraphale turned around, racing up the spiral staircase.

“’Aziraphale stormed upstairs and…and…!’”

Huffing, Aziraphale mounted the steps and sprinted towards a little room he kept locked in the back, throwing it open. He would have been surprised to find someone standing in there, but it would have been a manifestation and he could attack it. In the end, that would have been much better. Physically fight an apparition? Loads better than just a voice that _wasn’t even talking to him_.

Instead, the old dusty bedroom was empty, and Aziraphale, no longer frozen in place at the entryway, rushed inside and grabbed up a lamp, swinging it back and forth like a club.

“’Aziraphale, thoroughly riled up, abused a lamp for no apparent reason!’” He shook it some more and then dropped it, where it didn’t even have the decency to crash into a million pieces. It was a sturdy thing. It would require an apology later, as Aziraphale staggered about, knocking more things off a dresser that he had forgotten, a snuff box and a case with interesting little cufflinks in reds and golds and snake designs, before he crashed into an unused bed with four stubby posts at each corner.

“’Aziraphale…distraught…began to just….’” Aziraphale collapsed onto the mattress, his head thrumming with pain and panic and, ultimately, the defeat that was coming in. “Please. Just say…just say something. ‘Aziraphale, distraught…could not….’ ‘Aziraphale, distraught….’”

And soon it was just breathing. Just ragged, angry breathing, as Aziraphale lay there on his unused bed, alone in his quiet bookshop.


	3. Birthday Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it says on the tin...they go to a birthday party. You know the one.

THE PARTY RAGED ON AS TWO INDIVIDUALS MADE THEIR ESCAPE.

“Well that was a _complete_ disaster.” Aziraphale scraped frosting off the side of his head, flinging his hand so that it went sailing towards the bushes. “I have never seen so many children violently opposed to a man with a rabbit before.” Another swipe to clear off the mess caked – ha _ha_ – onto his collar. Annoyance will make you forget everything, like how you can miracle yourself clean with a snap and a wish. “At least it’s over.”

In more ways than one, really. The scant few days between Wednesday and today had blipped on by without so much as a peep from his mysterious narrator. Quite annoying, but Aziraphale, after his little break down in the bedroom, decided it was best if it went away. They had much more pressing issues to worry about, and a disembodied voice threatening his life was absolutely the last thing he needed.

He did apologize to Crowley. On Thursday, in fact. Didn’t mention the voice. They had lunch and discussed their plans for the party. They drank. They ate. They departed and returned to their homes to sweat out the remained few hours to see if the last eleven years had been worth it.

So, it was Saturday and Aziraphale arrived early to the party, taking the same route he generally did when he was posing as Brother Francis, his familiarity with the grounds unwarranted as his Stage Magician persona, but nonetheless, it got the job done. Crowley had kindly drawn on his moustache in a cramped canvas tent where the help were all getting ready to celebrate young Warlock Dowling coming into his eleventh age. Aziraphale had fixed Crowley’s lapels, needlessly. And then they separated and got the job done.

There were so many busy sorts, running around, security sprinkled in amongst them. Crowley, who was such a fan of the old spy movies, could not help ingratiating himself amongst that side of the staff. His sunglasses sold it best of all, though he did like touching his earlobe and nodding to himself, or checking his watch and scanning the crowds. At the very least, he seemed to have fun.

It must be awful, really. Seeing the child he raised and, though nobody would say it but it must be a little true, _loved_ , having fun at a party and not even recognizing him. Can’t be helped. Big deal. Armageddon and thwarting it and all that.

Candles were lit. Blown out. Children rioted. Bullets were fired in a misguided attempt to make one overactive young man happy, with miraculous saves every which way – a trick Crowley pulled off on more than one occasion. And a dove died in his coat pocket, but that was a very small concern. He set it on the hood of the Bentley as he continued to clean himself off.

Crowley, quiet and distracted for the afternoon, gently poked the dove, which apparently hadn’t been dead at all. It righted itself and shook off what must’ve been an incredible headache, before taking off like nothing was the matter, the tinge of a miracle disappearing like smoke on the wind.

“I think there’s cake in my…there is,” Aziraphale said with another frown, lifting his foot. “There’s cake in my shoe.”

“Something’s wrong,” Crowley said, ignoring Aziraphale and his shoe. He snapped and the mess that covered Aziraphale was promptly gone before the demon slid into his car, waiting for Aziraphale to join him.

“Wrong?” Aziraphale asked, opening his car door as well and carefully slipping inside. He paused a moment and wondered if his mysterious voice had found a new home in the demon’s head. Should he ask…if he was hearing things? No, don’t be so direct. Could spook him. Instead, Aziraphale asked, “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“Why didn’t it show up?”

“Show up?”

“It should’ve been here. It should’ve come right now and it didn’t.”

“What should have?” Aziraphale asked with increasing worry at Crowley’s disgruntled state. He looked around, too, not entirely certain what he was even looking for. Was it another demon? After 6000 years, had Crowley finally decided to betray him at last? That would be the longest con in history, surely! Aziraphale felt unnecessarily deceived, rounding about to accuse him, when Crowley slowly dropped his forehead to the steering wheel in apparent defeat. “Crowley! Would you _please_ just explain it better?”

Of course, he didn’t get the chance. The radio crackled to life and Crowley spoke with Dagon, Lord of the Files, Master of Madness, Under-Duke of the Seventh Torment, etc etc, only to get an answer he had been _dreading_.

“No, right, can see it now, coming round the corner,” Crowley said, his hand already on the knob to switch the dial off. “—helly hell hound. Right.”

“Hail Satan,” Dagon answered in the usual way and Crowley clicked the radio off, sinking back into the cushions of his seat.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, slowly looking over at Crowley, who looked like he wanted to fall into the very earth itself.

“No dog,” said Crowley.

“No dog,” Aziraphale answered in agreement. “Wrong boy.”

“Wrong boy.”

The engine started and Aziraphale had to wonder if they had a destination in mind. If Crowley decided to run off, he was going to take Aziraphale hostage, and after today, Aziraphale wasn’t quite up to playing hostage.

 _In the event that someone goes about losing the wrong child, one must consider heading back to the beginning. Not_ that _begin—_

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale muttered miserably, covering his face when the helpful Narrator, who now deserved a capital N, if it should decide to be a persistent figure in his life, decided to barge right back in. After such a nice little holiday of telling Aziraphale he was going to die and then fucking right off afterwards.

“Look,” Crowley said, his shoulder hitching up as he started to get a bit defensive. “It’s not _my_ fault we have the wrong child. We both thought it was him. We were sure. I should know! I was _there_.”

_\--beginning, though it was a favourite of his to retell. One does like to share the first time they met their best mate, but seeing as Crowley is the only one he talks to with any regularity, he doesn’t get a chance to share said story._

_A shame._

“Would you be quiet,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, daring to move his hands to his ears in exasperation. “Please.”

“I’m only saying!” Crowley continued, and the way his shoulder suddenly hitched up, it was clear he was offended that Aziraphale didn’t want to hear it. He was wrong, of course, but Aziraphale was not explaining himself.

“Oh, Crowley.” If anything, it was more a whine than way of apology, the best he could manage as Crowley yanked them into a more populated area, where anyone was at the whim of his erratic driving. He had not had an accident, but he couldn’t play chicken forever! At some point – Aziraphale’s hands flew to the dashboard.

“Watch out!”

“I’ve got it,” Crowley muttered dismissively.

“Where are you even going?”

“Hospital.”

For a brief moment, Aziraphale was curious if Crowley had been injured in the madness at the party. He looked quickly at Crowley, then down at himself. Had _he_ been shot? Was this that untimely death his Narrator had threatened him with?

“There must’ve been a mix up,” Crowley iterated and sighed, rubbing his forehead. Then gave the steering wheel a good thwack for extra measure.

“A mix up?”

“With the babies, yeah. There were two…I think there were two. Maybe we just go the wrong one.”

 _What had ultimately been missed by both Aziraphale_ and _Crowley was that there had, in fact, been three. Three babies passed around the Tadfield hospital that fateful evening, something like a shuffling card trick. Their missing baby, the very one they had assumed they had raised for eleven years, was actually…somewhere else._

“There were three!” Aziraphale said with a gasp, sitting up.

“What?”

“Three. There were three infants. The night you brought the antichrist up, d’you remember?”

“Yes, _I_ remember. Why d’you sound suddenly like _you_ remember? You weren’t even there.”

“At Tadfield.”

“Who told you that?!”

“There must’ve been another couple,” Aziraphale continued, unimpeded. It was the first useful thing his Narrator had given him, a gift for all the trouble, and he latched onto it with the desperation of a man drowning.

“Another…?”

The Bentley swerved around a pedestrian, who had been going about their day on the sidewalk – they knew the risks of walking, as a certain demon might say – as Crowley set them to take the M25 out of London and off to the sleepy little village of Tadfield. It was the closest they had to a good idea and he was keen to take it, right the wrongs and all that, save the world. Himself…themselves.

_They did not talk about asylum from the Other Side, though it did come to Aziraphale’s mind. As the two of them watched and lived among humanity for 6000 years, they had learned to truly love the place, and seeing it all go up over some end of the world scheme seemed a bit pointless._

_Though, Aziraphale had to remind himself, it was all Ineffable. A part of the Great Plan._

“Right,” he said to himself with a sigh, nodding towards his hands.

“Right, what?” Crowley asked, still gripping the steering wheel like he was going to strangle it. He probably could. Wouldn’t dare, of course. He loved the thing. But still….

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just…ineffable.”

“What is?”

“This?” Aziraphale made a vague gesture out the window, which earned him a scoff in return. Fair enough. “That you had the wrong boy.”

“We,” Crowley corrected defensively.

“And that you spent the last decade raising him.

“We!”

“And now there’s an antichrist out there with a hell hound and we’ve no clue where to find him.”

Crowley reached across blindly and found Aziraphale’s shoulder, giving it an affirming squeeze. And sent a sensible mid-sized car off the road in the same breath.

-

> A young boy nicks reaches down to scratch under the neck of the little terrier dog that came bounding out of the woods. His friends argue that it’s impossible, but without any conviction that the dog should belong to him. It’s perfect, is what it is. Exactly as he imagined it, like it was custom-made, and their kinship cements something that explodes out into the universe. A pact. A proper Pact, capital P, spelling the End of the World. The Boy, Adam Young, whistles and Dog follows, as do his friends, as the sky shines brightly, and whispers begin to travel on the wind.
> 
> A young woman drops a pendant from her hand with an angry sigh before she returns to an old book. A very old book. The oldest and most important book in her family’s collection, in fact, with it’s little crayon drawings on the inside flap, and pen marks throughout that eventually made their way onto the postcards she keeps in an unsecure wooden box. Agnes never said anything about the cards being stolen, so it was never an issue. Agnes said many _other_ things. And she said them nice and accurately. In the book. The Woman, Anathema Device, turns through the pages to find the prophecies about the Great Beast, hopeful about the clues she may find inside, as the sky shines brightly, and whispers skip her house on the wind.
> 
> And Aziraphale, stepping out of the Bentley, turns as the wind drags a branch down from a great big tree and squishes him like—


	4. Notes From The Author

> _And Aziraphale, stepping out of the Bentley, turns as the wind drags a branch down from a great big tree and squishes him like—_

“Nope.” Frances sniffed, annoyed, and turned to arrange the detritus on her desk. She drew up a napkin, a Kleenex, and spat into it with a wad of semi-clear phlegm, before dousing her cigarette into the disgusting little wad. “Nope,” she said again, her face twitching, micro movements around her eyes and lips, and pushed enter on her keyboard. A typewriter. Not even a very beautiful one. In fact, an old but plastic-encased machine, with thick keys and a ribbon that liked to fight with her eveyr seventh sheet or so. But it was the only way she could write. It was the _only_ way she could see these characters born, live, and die by her hand.

Frances sniffed again.

“You can’t, just…you can’t—”

“There you are.”

The voice came out of nowhere, completely unexpected, and Frances jumped up, kicking back the throne that she used as her office chair – not at all like the one she imagined Crowley in her little story would have…he _would_ have a throne, though. That much was certain.

“Who—”

“Am I interrupting?” A woman stepped around the corner, holding a no-nonsense briefcase in black, dressed in a no-nonsense skirt and blouse, similarly in black. She looked very much like she should report to a bureau of some kind, a government agency of sorts, but Frances was certain that’s not quite the case. “I’m Penny Escher. I’m the assistant. The one Tomorrow Publication hired. I—”

“Ah.” Frances settled back into her seat, naked feet going to the edge of her desk. She had it all set up so that she could kick it and flip the desk as a distraction, bolting for a door. Not that there are many options, seeing as Penny was taking up the main one. The other went to a linen closet and the toilet. “The spy.”

Maybe the window….

“Ms. McDormand? I’m just here to assist.”

“Spy,” she answered back and sniffled again.

“Assist,” Ms. Escher assured in that same strict no-nonsense voice as the rest of her. FBI material. Interpol material. “I spotted a desk in the other room? I’ll be setting up there. I will file papers, set out notecards, answer phones.”

“And make sure I don’t get distracted,” Frances said, unable to keep herself from pursing her lips into a proper scowl.

“I’m here to make your life easier while you finish your book.”

Neither of them spoke on the length it has taken to write said book. Neither of them thought the word _ten years_ , nor say it out loud. Neither of them says _you’ve lost it, haven’t you_ and the doubt the publishers have.

Well…Frances spoke on the doubt. With a spite that stuck to her words.

“So I don’t get distracted,” she reiterated, biting each letter, rolling her eyes.

“To help you,” Ms. Escher said with such incredible patience. Figured she had to learn that in special training to be a secret agent.

“Because they think I’m distracted,” Frances said as stubborn as ever.

Without missing a beat, without a resigned breath of defeat, Penny just folded her hands and squared her shoulders and said, “Yes.”

“Writer’s block. Right? _That’s_ what they want to say. It’s writer’s block and they’ve wasted an advancement on someone—”

“What are these?” Penny looked down, stepping further into Frances’ bright white office. The walls stretch up so high, painted a pristine white with two large windows right in front of them. The very ones she considered jumping out of. Still did, with how the conversation was going. “Are these pages?”

Frances was pulled out of her accusations and twisted in the chair a little to look at the papers scattered on the floor.

“No. Letters from my fans.” So smug in her assurance that she still had any fans who would write her and that she could ignore them.

“Do you write them back?”

“No, I don’t write to fans,” she answered, and there’s a slight tremor in her resolve. It’s Penny’s pursed lips that do it. That silent judgement. As much as Frances had built up her defenses, as much as she has guarded herself, toughened her skin, she was still a creator baring pieces of herself to the world. It hurt to be judged. It always hurt. And it made her sneer. “I don’t have writer’s block.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Penny said, gathering the papers up despite the little flail against organization.

She tapped them against the ground and stood, looking back towards a desk in the other room. Of course there was a desk. Of course Frances had meant to get an assistant sooner, before she walled herself away, writing in solitude, smoking her cigarettes.

The unasked question hung in the air between them until Frances twitched and turned back to her old typewriter. She scowled at it and pointed with her knuckle. A finger was a dagger, an obvious threat. A knuckle was closer to a fist.

“The problem is….” Frances took a deep breath and looked back at her manuscript, her eyes flicking uselessly over the page, at the empty bit of paper that was taunting her. “I don’t know how to kill Aziraphale.”

“That’s it?”

“It has to be perfect,” she said slowly, starting to sink into her thoughts. “ _Perfect_.”

“Frances? Fran, if I may?” She _mayn’t_ , but, to be honest, Frances barely heard her, so she may indeed, apparently. “Okay, I’m here to help. I’ll help around here, your office. Space.” The pause was not palpable. Still dropped heavy enough into the conversation. “I’ve never missed a deadline before. I’ve never had to ask for an extension on deadlines and I’m not about to do so now. I don’t abide loud music or hard drugs.” And her constant glance at the cigarettes said something else, but at least she let it go. “And, per the agreement with your publishers, I will quietly help you kill Aziraphale. I even know someone who can help.”

“Help?” It was the first thing to bring Frances out of her thoughts, which lead to her chewing the corner of her bottom lip. She sat up, leaning closer once more. “I thought _you_ were helping.”

Penny already had out her cellular and was scrolling through a short list of contacts. Two names from the publishing company, her boss, and three names that somehow appeared in her phone in bold colors, despite that not being a thing those contacts should be able to do. They came in red, black, and white. And, finally, in big capital letters, Penny tapped the final name and sent out a text message.

“I am,” Penny said, pleased to see a response right away. HE was always punctual like that. “As well as being very organized and resourceful. Now. What do you have so far for Aziraphale?”

“What’s your thoughts about jumping from buildings?”


	5. DEATH and Other Charming Anecdotes

DEATH LOOMED OVER AN ANGEL.

Even if he didn’t know it. Sort’ve the point of DEATH. Always present, silently watching. Waiting.

Aziraphale, if he could but feel a tickling of that presence, would tell it to kindly shove off, please. But he was preoccupied with other matters.

“Okay, so…does your voice have…anything else? To add?”

“I don’t _control_ it!” Aziraphale answered, getting frustrated with the lack of answers they had. They knew there had been another boy. They knew he was out there in the world, right now, with a hell hound and coming into his powers, which Crowley had helpfully explained _hid him_ from anyone trying to find him by unconventional means. And now it was pointless. And, worse, Crowley kept asking about the Narrator, which had a few thoughts on people beginning to open fire on each other at a paintball tournament and the effect of hypnotizing a former Satanic Nun, one Sister Mary Loquacious. It wasn’t her fault. She had been nice and helpful, if a tad distracted by the memory of the cute little antichrist when he had been an unassuming babe.

“How d’you even know it’s really a voice and you haven’t just developed some psychosis?”

“I’m ethereal. We don’t develop – mind the road!”

_Crowley, in his frustration, had been speeding again. DEATH always did have to keep up with speeders._

“Death?” Aziraphale groaned.

“Death of what?” Crowley asked.

“Just!” Aziraphale huffed. “Just watch the road.”

Crowley batted his concerns away immediately.

_They were always getting into horrible accidents, people who sped. It was their very nature. Worse, Crowley was driving without his headlights on, which wasn’t completely out of the ordinary. He wanted to ghost through the countryside and get back to London as soon as possible. He had said something about going to bed._

“You aren’t supposed to eat at fancy little restaurants, but that doesn’t stop you,” Crowley said finally, ignoring Aziraphale’s protests about the headlights, too.

“I thought you liked the fancy little restauraunts.”

“When they have good custard, I s’pose.”

Custard was very good. As was sushi and music and ducks and funny little plays in quiet little theaters and children eating sundaes and clouds and everything that would be taken away when the world ended, whenever that was supposed to be.

_Aziraphale had an even stranger timeline, all things considered. All because of his pocket—_

“I forgot to throw that away!” Aziraphale wailed towards the windowpane, angling his face up to speak to the Narrator.

“Throw what away?” Crowley peeked over his sunglasses, his golden eyes flashing in curiousity.

“Well – just – I mean….”

“You gonna ask her about the child?”

“She’s not very helpful! She never answers me back. Not straight away.”

“Weird.”

“You mean ‘annoying.’ And rude, actually!” Aziraphale sunk his face into his hands, groaning louder.

“And she said you’re going to die?” Crowley asked, dropping his voice, like he was afraid if he said it any louder, the whole car would start on fire and take them both out. He was not entirely concerned about himself, though it’s a lie to say he wasn’t completely terrified of dying, too. Discorporating, sure. It had happened several times in the past, and it was a bugger to get put back together and shipped up. But if they got word on how he died, who with, and then the world ended to boot? No point in getting a new body, other to fight in a great blasted War to end all Wars. Pointless, like he said. Terrifying. Pointlessly terrifying. Much easier to focus his terror on worrying about his friend/mortal-and-hereditary-enemy/really-more-friends-actually/love-of-his-life.

Well, scratch that last one.

A little.

Aziraphale sighed and dropped his hands.

“She said ‘Little did he know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act, would ultimately result in his death.’”

“’Little did he know?’”

“Yes. That’s what she said.”

“Weird,” Crowley said again, which was precisely when his car _thunked_ against what appeared to be a young woman riding on her bicycle in the middle of the woods and veered them off course completely.

“Crowley!”

“What?!”

“You’ve hit someone!”

Crowley forced the car to stop and made a face towards the woods where the strange cyclist had exited, then the other side of the woods with the rest of the woods where the strange cyclist was presumably stretched out in a mangled mess. His car made a satisfying click with the hand break before he killed the engine and hopped out.

“She hit me, let’s be clear,” he said and started squinting through the dark to find her. “’Little did he know….’ Why couldn’t your voice warn us about people on bicycles? Riding out in the middle of the night! Mental.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Aziraphale said, dropping his voice considerably as he practically floated over to a young woman bleeding away in a leaf pile.

_How it works is that DEATH arrives at precisely the time you need him. He stands tall, eternal, his face shrouded only to help hide the grinning skull stuck in the void where a head ought to be. He carries a scythe with him, and it’s unclear if it’s for the aesthetic or to help prop up his long old bones. Only he knows the answer to that._

_DEATH arrives and reaches out and out and—_

Well. Not today.

What happened was that Aziraphale made it to the young woman’s side, shadows looming completely ignored for the frenzy of fixing her up quickly and quietly. It seemed the best and most accurate solution to the blunder of running her off the road. He ghosted his hand over a broken bone or two, mending them on the spot, and made quick work of the velocipede with which she had thoroughly ran into Crowley’s car.

The Bentley was fine. Not a ding or a scratch, as with a demonic miracle of his own Crowley set it to rights once more. It was his car and it would be immaculate and nobody could fault him for taking care of it before he did the human because, well, a demon. It was in his nature to be a tad selfish.

“Would you help me?” Aziraphale hissed from the roadside, helping a very startled woman up to her feet.

“I…my…my head.”

“Perfectly fine,” Aziraphale assured her with a tight smile. “Arm too, I should think.”

“You hit me,” she said, pointing somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s body. Probably. It was so very hard to tell with that concussion of hers, everything swimming in thirds.

_Anathema Device had never broken a bone in her short life, and though she had managed it just this time, the fates were on her side that it was mended right away, so she never had the pleasure of a cast. Witches get all the luck._

“Anathema!” Aziraphale said, startled the name just shot right out of him. So was she, by her expression.

“Did I…tell you?”

“Yes. Oh, most definitely,” he lied.

“Oh. After you hit me with your car?”

“Ah, _you_ hit _me_ , actually,” Crowley said as he sauntered around the back end, sneering at her poor contraption still standing sideways in the leaf pile. “So.”

“I don’t think—”

“Anyways, we should be on our way,” Crowley said through his teeth, aimed directly at Aziraphale. “Places to be. People to see. _Dogs_ to catch, mm?”

“Oh, we can’t leave her like this,” Aziraphale argued, even if Crowley had a point. A very reasonable one at that. “We should give her a lift.”

“I’ve nowhere to put the—”

“Yes, you do!” Aziraphale said with brighter cheer, to the point that a lamppost might as well form itself over their heads and light up like it’s Christmas or something. “It’ll fit just perfectly on your _bike rack_.”

“You didn’t,” Crowley said, and turned around, noticing tartan straps and a shiny new metal frame sticking to his car, just slapped on there with no regards to form or fashion. “You _didn’t_ ,” he repeated firmly.

Aziraphale ignored him as he helped poor Anathema – well, one blessing to the Narrator, at least he got her name for a change – over to the passenger seat. She was muttering something about her book, and then guessing after the two of them and probably being very reasonable about getting into cars with two strangers, except that Aziraphale was much stronger and very patient and, alright, maybe it wasn’t a _good_ thing, necessarily, but he helped her into the car all the same.

“I think your book’s right there, actually,” he said, noticing the battered green binding. Poor thing needed a good cleaning and, oh, the cover was so tattered. It broke his heart. But, can’t rescue them all. Never mind.

_There’s something to be said about books, just the same as there’s something to be said about pocket watches._

“Oh, do be quiet,” Aziraphale muttered.

“What?”

“Not you, dear,” he said and forced a smile for Anathema before he stood back up over the car and made certain Crowley had put the bike where it should be, instead of driving off without it. He was even prepared to spend another miracle on it to ensure Crowley didn’t forget it but was surprised to see the demon fight with the straps and pluck them to ensure they were good and tight. “Thank you,” he practically mouthed to Crowley, who waved the sentiment away before it landed on him and burned him for being so very nice.

_The thing with books is that Aziraphale has favourites. Everyone does. No one, not even an angel, are immune to that. And while he does collect an astonishing number of bibles, there is a second collection. One that he does not talk about. Or, if he does, he passes it off as a silly hobby. A laugh. His own private joke._

_And, for a while, he may even believe that to be the truth._

“It is,” Aziraphale insisted, rolling his eyes.

Anathema, at least, decided not to ask again _what_ the stranger was muttering, or to whom, and got herself comfortable in the back of the car. Truly, it was a terrible knock to the head to even agree to get into that old beast. Nobody drove around cars like that anymore and the people who did were probably mobsters or something. She was more convinced of that when Crowley came back and slid into his seat, making some caddy remark about sides, and who’s fault, and playing unfairly.

“Well, we couldn’t leave her,” Aziraphale said, happy to have Crowley back in the car, despite how much their appearances alone suggested their deep-seated rivalry.

Speaking of books, and judging covers and all that….

“I have a bread knife,” Anathema offered in the dark, just a moment as she slid across the seat.   
  
“And I have something better,” Crowley answered with a shrug. “So?”  
  
Aziraphale smacked Crowley’s shoulder and spun around to face her as she jostled about in the back, her items from her basket gathered up somewhat in her arms. Some ridiculous equipment…surveying equipment? A bottle. A bag. A book. Crowley was actually doing very well to drive slowly through the woods, as though chastised into following speed limits by a young woman instead of the very laws themselves. Still, Anathema reacted as though they were careening towards a cliff. Had to be nerves.

“And where do you live?”

“Live?” Anathema frowned, her hand sailing up not to the ceiling to brace herself but to her head. Thankfully not cracked anymore, but no doubt she’d be in for a Paramectol when she was home. “Just. Down the road. At the cottage.”

“Oh, how lovely. And you were, mm, doing some sightseeing?”

“In the dark?” Crowley asked, his voice worming down into a grumbly accusation.

“You were in the dark, too!” she shot back with all the heat and vigor of an American. Of course. “You didn’t have lights on.”

And, suddenly, the Bentley’s lights were on. Like they had always been on, surely. Probably. Maybe?

 _They hadn’t been_.

_But Aziraphale knew that, too._

“Course I did,” Azirpahale grumbled, turning around, while Crowley and Anathema gave him a look and assumed he had been talking about the headlamps.

They arrived soon enough at a decent village. The air prickled sweetly with familiarity and Crowley was the first to perk up at it.

“There’s a hospital around here. Run by nuns?”

Anathema only gave a look and shook her head. “I don’t…I’m renting the place. I haven’t been here long enough. Actually, this is me!” And she leaned forward enough to point at a nice little cottage set up. It did look quaint. Aziraphale smiled at it all. Still too close to neighbors, but it looked nice in isolation from the scenery. Gave him _ideas_. “You can drop me off here.”

They pulled to a very nice and reasonable stop. Another crank of the handbrake. Aziraphale was out first, opening the door, offering his assistance, while Crowley simply stood by the driver’s side. The bike was conveniently waiting by the fence.

_It’s certainly not Miss Device’s fault for being wary. A young lady picked up by two older gentlemen in the middle of the night certainly has connotations. And one Anthony J. Crowley, if that is his real name – and it is not – does put out a certain vibe on person. No fault on Aziraphale’s that he’s drawn into the same vibe by association. Late at night. On dark roads._

“No, yes. Um. Yes, thank you,” Anathema said, trying to get her things together, retreating from the two most-definitely-mobster-killer-somethings. She looked at her bike and couldn’t help the frown. “You’re…sure that’s mine?”

“Definitely,” Azirpahale said, beaming.

“Only, mine didn’t have gears….”

Crowley hummed something across the car and Aziraphale darkened considerably at his overzealous help. He didn’t apologize, though.

“Glad to be of assistance,” he said.

“Right. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yes. Yes, alright, can we go? Come _on_ , Angel.”

_Ah. Well that explained it. She had been perfectly safe after all._

Aziraphale tilted his head as he slowly returned to the car.

 _He wasn’t sure what the voice was implying, and if he liked it or not. And if he sat facing the window as they peeled away, it wasn’t because he was pouting, nor turning something over in his mind. Nor was it aggravated by that feeling blooming so warm in his chest from their surroundings. From the whole atmosphere of the village they were in, which was drowning in what can only be described as_ love _._


End file.
